Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Modern World (Day 1)
And God said 'Let there be Light!',and thus the godly word was spoken, without definition or detail. And the team of seven tasked with this godly endeavor split off in search of a definition for this phenomenon that was yet to be, cursing vague requirements and the impossibility of thorough analysis before implementation. And each made a light as they thought light should be, and Five made Blue, and Six made Indigo and they both named it Light. One, Two and Three started the movement that would be known as Teamwork which ended in the first disagreement when One insisted that only Red could be light while Three discovered Stubborness and stuck with Yellow. Two was the first to ever compromise and in a futile search for Independent Thought picked a wishy-washy in between. And the Seven toiled and created, and competed to present the results of their labour. And the seven lights mixed under the godly gaze, and since no one had through to test for the possible side-effects of superimposing seven different implementations, the result was sudden and blinding. God, in his infinite wisdom, reacted quickly to this surprise (only surprising to the seven, since One without time is generally also One without cause for surprise) and quickly created the stratosphere for the seven to be blasted into. But now there was Light, and for lack of well-defined stakeholders to review this Light and more importantly a task force to possibly modify it, God decided 'It's good.'
Friday, December 11, 2009
Friday night randomness
I think everyone should take a moment to think about what annoyed them in the past week. The only time I feel comfortable doing that, is after a few glasses (still Chianti, still great):
- Obama won a Nobel peace prize? Great! When do I get my sobriety prize?
- Discussing the end of the book in the preface is simply evil.
- Calling cards that tell you that you have 30 second left. Too short to say anything meaningful, but just saying bye leaves you with 20 seconds of awkward silence.
- Being bitched at for still being at the gym at closing time. Because there's nothing like getting yelled at by an angry russian while you're butt naked in the shower.
- Cold showers are an acquired taste. Cold showers with no pressure, however, are rather like Chinese water torture.
- COP-15. If the point of state leaders is to appear like they're doing something while jacking off verbally, half my office would qualify.
- Religion should not be publicized. It should be treated like a drug habit.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Poetry and such
My dear Janis, it's been a strange night - a night like any other actually, until a poem raced through my mind. I'd written it years ago, but I was always aware that some parts were just filler; I'd look at it every now and then, and wonder and worry at the parts that just didn't fit. All of a sudden, tonight it formed itself, so easily like it should have been obvious all along. I love these moments, when words just pour out as if consciousness was not there in the way. Complete reality bypass, just words.
All it's missing is a title - I await your suggestions there ;)
Give in to me!
Forget the flowers and the sun,
the dandylion light of day,
the naive blooms of spring to come,
the lazy, catatonic May.
I'll give you frost so cold you'll freeze
and burn in darkness with the stars,
the mad night rushing through my veins,
the black shine of forgotten scars.
Give in to me!
I'll be your queen, I'll be your slave;
entwined around you and cold as ice.
My love, we'll never warm a grave,
we'll burn the road to paradise.
I'll give you rhythm, worlds beneath your feet,
the bloody beat of crazy drums that call
in saltmine tears to loves we never meet,
in red-thorned fields to foes that never fall.
Come - kiss my hand!
Come - conquer me...
You don't need a safe place to land,
it's fire that that makes history.
I'm drinking a lovely Chianti and listening to Jennifer Hudson (And I am telling you, I'm not going). I'll have to pick up another bottle for your arrival.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
earth2100
Janis, my apologies, I know I've been awfully uncommunicative (last weekend possibly excepted) - it seems I'm over that little problem. I've just spent a pleasant two hours with tea, a smoke and a movie. It was so perfect I wanted to give you a little review.
earth2100. I got it because of the title and because the alternative was Nostradamus and 2012 crap in French, and put it on as background noise while packing books away - 12 books later I settled down to watch it.
It proposes 2100 as a world in ruins, total science fiction. Then it invites you to follow the story of Lucy, born in 2009. She grows up through what we could consider plausible for the near future: a world hooked on oil, ignoring environmental changes while causing progressively more damage. People live in really bad weather while Malthusian catastrophe nears.
It's written for an American audience, and the rest of the world only plays a supporting role in the unfolding drama, but Lucy's story is interesting enough to pull you through a century of eyes wide shut. The problem is that there is no time-bomb to blow us all to the seventh circle of hell, just a slow decay that we live with. Adaptability as the tragic flaw of our species? Shakespeare couldn't have chosen better.
Hurricanes, wars and rations, mass migration, mass starvation and an utterly existentialist plague all lead to complete societal collapse. It all comes across a little dramatized, a little patronizing and with a subtle whiff of political propaganda in time for the current cap-and-trade issue, but is still a possible path to purgatory.
Probable? Mayhap - but the whole science behind predicting environmental changes seems rather 'this or that' to me and this movie also presumes to predict political, social and economic reactions. However, and this point remains valid: there is a problem now, and while we sit around like Trojans looking at the horse's ass, the earth is preparing for battle. May the best planet win :)
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Shards
Broke a glass today Jinx, and it inspired a stream of thought. I'm in Christiania again (no surprise) enjoying internet under almost luxury conditions: no need for the tarp, 5am so no bike traffic (Strøget empty, which is eerie since that never happens), Pink Floyd's Shine Part II playing, and cheap coffee from the 24hr bakery steaming beside me. I'm like an onion, Copenhagen is fucking cold and every piece of clothing is needed to keep warm. But I was talking about glasses...
My flatmate works in a bar, and from previous experience of hanging around those places I've noticed that every bartender, no matter how experienced, has dropped glasses in their record. Whatever the reason - off day, sick, distraction - the glass smashes, get's swept up, and the beer pours into a fresh one. Now if life is the bar, the hustle and bustle, then every society has it's smashed glasses. We speak of people being 'broken', fragile, transparent, clear - all these references to glass. In most bars when then glass breaks it ends up as shards in the trash, but sometimes you walk into a place that surprises you.
Sometimes you end up in a place where the shards get melted down, or glued back together, or fused in some other way to make something new. They hang down like crazy lamps around the candlelight, glow with strange colors through the tabletop mosaic, scatter the wall in a mirror of art. Sometimes you end up in a place like Christiania, where the shards aren't broken glass, they're just shards. Instead of fractions of a whole, they become new&different wholes. A guy came up to me today when I was drawing in Manesfiskern (Moonfisher cafe) vaguely intoxicated and wanting a drag. We got chatting (well mainly he sat there smoking and gesturing, that joint disappeared fast) and he told me about crossing India on motorcycle to catalog Tsunami victims. I have no idea what the guy went through - though if his stories offer any glimpse it was intense - but it left him crying, drunk and ranting about changing the world under the noon sun in Christiania. He'd had a job, normal life, and then woken up one day and looked at the world until dead Indian eyes looked back; it probably almost or did 'break' him. But in this place, this guy can at least get it out, talk to strangers, tourists (maybe they'll learn something), whoever he needs to tell his shit to, to deal with it.
I don't call that a broken shard in the trash, I call that a piece putting itself together. I've seen many a classmate in Canada exposed to many a smaller pressure bury themselves in drugs, sex, gambling, food. All manner of escapes that buried the problem far deeper than this guy could shove his, and cope far worse, while still being considered whole glasses. But being a whole glass, just to stand empty or hold a cup of toxic juice, might be more 'broken' than hanging out as a piece of lamp. We've all got our passions, histories, little niche in life. Some tend the bar, some sing, some hit on the ladies, some avoid the creeps, some dance, some drink, some read, some dream, and some sweep up the broken bits and take them home. This place is teaching me things about judging people. Oh, and by the way Jinx, want to know what that guy did before he left for India? He was a ballet dancer at the academy in Denmark. Little shard twirled like a spinning top, just goes to show.
Coffee's getting cold, the thing's I do to express myself online Jinx, so peace out.
My flatmate works in a bar, and from previous experience of hanging around those places I've noticed that every bartender, no matter how experienced, has dropped glasses in their record. Whatever the reason - off day, sick, distraction - the glass smashes, get's swept up, and the beer pours into a fresh one. Now if life is the bar, the hustle and bustle, then every society has it's smashed glasses. We speak of people being 'broken', fragile, transparent, clear - all these references to glass. In most bars when then glass breaks it ends up as shards in the trash, but sometimes you walk into a place that surprises you.
Sometimes you end up in a place where the shards get melted down, or glued back together, or fused in some other way to make something new. They hang down like crazy lamps around the candlelight, glow with strange colors through the tabletop mosaic, scatter the wall in a mirror of art. Sometimes you end up in a place like Christiania, where the shards aren't broken glass, they're just shards. Instead of fractions of a whole, they become new&different wholes. A guy came up to me today when I was drawing in Manesfiskern (Moonfisher cafe) vaguely intoxicated and wanting a drag. We got chatting (well mainly he sat there smoking and gesturing, that joint disappeared fast) and he told me about crossing India on motorcycle to catalog Tsunami victims. I have no idea what the guy went through - though if his stories offer any glimpse it was intense - but it left him crying, drunk and ranting about changing the world under the noon sun in Christiania. He'd had a job, normal life, and then woken up one day and looked at the world until dead Indian eyes looked back; it probably almost or did 'break' him. But in this place, this guy can at least get it out, talk to strangers, tourists (maybe they'll learn something), whoever he needs to tell his shit to, to deal with it.
I don't call that a broken shard in the trash, I call that a piece putting itself together. I've seen many a classmate in Canada exposed to many a smaller pressure bury themselves in drugs, sex, gambling, food. All manner of escapes that buried the problem far deeper than this guy could shove his, and cope far worse, while still being considered whole glasses. But being a whole glass, just to stand empty or hold a cup of toxic juice, might be more 'broken' than hanging out as a piece of lamp. We've all got our passions, histories, little niche in life. Some tend the bar, some sing, some hit on the ladies, some avoid the creeps, some dance, some drink, some read, some dream, and some sweep up the broken bits and take them home. This place is teaching me things about judging people. Oh, and by the way Jinx, want to know what that guy did before he left for India? He was a ballet dancer at the academy in Denmark. Little shard twirled like a spinning top, just goes to show.
Coffee's getting cold, the thing's I do to express myself online Jinx, so peace out.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Happy Birthday Christiania
- and Jinx, she's celebrating in style. Well, in a manner of speaking. Her greens got a trimming, trash a cleaning, and pushers a fresh supply of hash for tonight's festivities. What can I do, earnest traveler, put partake in full? I mowed the little theatre bowl outside 'Wonderland' and so met my ins to the freetown, the very cool original pusher of the lawnmower until he got an unexpected smoke break.
All this talk of birthdays has been thinking about time and space, and the points of intersection along that four-dimensional axis we call experience. In my urban ecosystems class, a group project involves retrofitting a historically important train station to a zero-solution stormwater management approach. Background: basically cities make surfaces impermeable (we pave&build everything), so when it rains sewers manage our water but they often flood (bigger storms)..Q: how can we also manage the water cycle locally - A: sustainable urban drainage systems, SUDS.
Back to the train station, the idea is that as an old historic site there's a greater question of what to keep and what to toss. Change is seen as more a negative destruction of historical value, atmosphere, and tradition than a wonderful makeover. Sure putting in a WADI would solve everything but it would destroy the old fountain out front put in by King F. in century X. and we can't do that! But I'm not interested in the details so much as the underlying question, because really history is continuous uninterrupted (and highly subjective) flow. The points we highlight are exactly those, the history of someone from a certain perspective. That we strive to be unbiased doesn't change the fact that the winners write the history books; every time we 'preserve' one history it hides multiple versions of the same city, events and experiences. Who chooses which histories are made available - and to whom?
It's funny that in thinking about space and time, and the points that constitute my human experience, I end up thinking about power. Most of my experience takes place in the urban environment, like anyone who lives in a city which is mostly anyone reading this. Think about this, urban environments (what people tend to think of as their world) are entirely the product of humans. We have built, imagined and designed our cities (often using, imitating or learning from constructions in nature) and thus created our surroundings, our lives and shaped our futures. Ideas shaped reality, reality pushed back, and they kept right on taking this waltz to make the universe. In practical terms, that has me wondering if I change my mind, will my reality change? Why can't I take active part in the world around me, if it's mostly made by other people? Which brings me round to power. Flows of power, like the energy available in a system to do work, control the built reality in a pyramid. Very few people at the top make the decisions that trickle through to create the lives of those below.
But sewers flood, populations grow, another year brings another birthday and things change. And right now sitting on a freshly cut patch of grass enjoying free net and rare sunshine, I'm optimistic. Because the future doesn't exist, history only sets a precedent not a certainty; maybe tomorrow will be better because I made today a little better. Maybe if everyone at the bottom does some creative thinking they can flip the pyramid, measure in the currency of human potential and not paper money.
Happy Birthday Christiania, you exist as a reminder of another history and honey tonight that story will turn up the volume. Let Copenhagen hear there's alternative ways to live, maybe some sound waves will bounce out your way Jinx. Listen up.
All this talk of birthdays has been thinking about time and space, and the points of intersection along that four-dimensional axis we call experience. In my urban ecosystems class, a group project involves retrofitting a historically important train station to a zero-solution stormwater management approach. Background: basically cities make surfaces impermeable (we pave&build everything), so when it rains sewers manage our water but they often flood (bigger storms)..Q: how can we also manage the water cycle locally - A: sustainable urban drainage systems, SUDS.
Back to the train station, the idea is that as an old historic site there's a greater question of what to keep and what to toss. Change is seen as more a negative destruction of historical value, atmosphere, and tradition than a wonderful makeover. Sure putting in a WADI would solve everything but it would destroy the old fountain out front put in by King F. in century X. and we can't do that! But I'm not interested in the details so much as the underlying question, because really history is continuous uninterrupted (and highly subjective) flow. The points we highlight are exactly those, the history of someone from a certain perspective. That we strive to be unbiased doesn't change the fact that the winners write the history books; every time we 'preserve' one history it hides multiple versions of the same city, events and experiences. Who chooses which histories are made available - and to whom?
It's funny that in thinking about space and time, and the points that constitute my human experience, I end up thinking about power. Most of my experience takes place in the urban environment, like anyone who lives in a city which is mostly anyone reading this. Think about this, urban environments (what people tend to think of as their world) are entirely the product of humans. We have built, imagined and designed our cities (often using, imitating or learning from constructions in nature) and thus created our surroundings, our lives and shaped our futures. Ideas shaped reality, reality pushed back, and they kept right on taking this waltz to make the universe. In practical terms, that has me wondering if I change my mind, will my reality change? Why can't I take active part in the world around me, if it's mostly made by other people? Which brings me round to power. Flows of power, like the energy available in a system to do work, control the built reality in a pyramid. Very few people at the top make the decisions that trickle through to create the lives of those below.
But sewers flood, populations grow, another year brings another birthday and things change. And right now sitting on a freshly cut patch of grass enjoying free net and rare sunshine, I'm optimistic. Because the future doesn't exist, history only sets a precedent not a certainty; maybe tomorrow will be better because I made today a little better. Maybe if everyone at the bottom does some creative thinking they can flip the pyramid, measure in the currency of human potential and not paper money.
Happy Birthday Christiania, you exist as a reminder of another history and honey tonight that story will turn up the volume. Let Copenhagen hear there's alternative ways to live, maybe some sound waves will bounce out your way Jinx. Listen up.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Random Thoughts On a Wine-less Night
Ahh, Janis m'dear, you're right - yes you are. But you forget who & what we are, us humans. We've split the atom, walked on the moon, built complex political & social systems, philosophized, mathematized & dragged our souls out on paper. We watched the telly and read the papers. We invented currency & economics and let them run rampant though the world. Amazing creatures, us. Aber im Keller ist immer eine Leiche.
You'd figure we could spread the love & the food & the medical advances to all, but there's an entire continent of misery to tarnish our glory. You'd figure we'd have the basic animal instinct of not shitting where one sleeps resolved to a civilized & advanced level, yet we've shit all over this planet without shame. We simply fail to see the bigger picture; I don't think our brains are wired like that.
A certain german used to say that sometimes it's just numbers - that bigger picture. Of course, he was a monster, him. And we? We eat & fuck & watch the telly.
But why is the wine gone?
It's a funny night. I have this need for reality bubbling to the surface; I wish I could paint or draw or draw haunting melodies from the strings of a violin. When too many hours are consumed by worrying about the quirky garbage collecting habits of a JVM or balancing paychecks to account for parking where I shouldn't & driving too fast I wonder what the point is. Not that parking where the mood strikes & driving as fast as the car will go & even overactive garbage collecting are not thrilling enough in themselves - but them's cheap thrills. I wonder when I started correlating feeling with reality.
That's the yearn - feeling & cherries & the road. I'm rambling in sentiment tonight, clearly.
Since there's still no wine (I tried to miracle my water, but I must be rusty), let the music compensate: Iron & Wine - lovely soul.
Dear Janis, I want to know more about Denmark & Copenhagen. Draw me there, so I can leave here.
But until then, farewell, and write to me,
And keep these very wise words in your mind:
"This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Though canst not then be false to any man."
... or woman. I'm sure that's an allegorical use of the word :)
Peace, out.
Jinx
You'd figure we could spread the love & the food & the medical advances to all, but there's an entire continent of misery to tarnish our glory. You'd figure we'd have the basic animal instinct of not shitting where one sleeps resolved to a civilized & advanced level, yet we've shit all over this planet without shame. We simply fail to see the bigger picture; I don't think our brains are wired like that.
A certain german used to say that sometimes it's just numbers - that bigger picture. Of course, he was a monster, him. And we? We eat & fuck & watch the telly.
But why is the wine gone?
It's a funny night. I have this need for reality bubbling to the surface; I wish I could paint or draw or draw haunting melodies from the strings of a violin. When too many hours are consumed by worrying about the quirky garbage collecting habits of a JVM or balancing paychecks to account for parking where I shouldn't & driving too fast I wonder what the point is. Not that parking where the mood strikes & driving as fast as the car will go & even overactive garbage collecting are not thrilling enough in themselves - but them's cheap thrills. I wonder when I started correlating feeling with reality.
That's the yearn - feeling & cherries & the road. I'm rambling in sentiment tonight, clearly.
Since there's still no wine (I tried to miracle my water, but I must be rusty), let the music compensate: Iron & Wine - lovely soul.
Dear Janis, I want to know more about Denmark & Copenhagen. Draw me there, so I can leave here.
But until then, farewell, and write to me,
And keep these very wise words in your mind:
"This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Though canst not then be false to any man."
... or woman. I'm sure that's an allegorical use of the word :)
Peace, out.
Jinx
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